Shadow War: Book 3 of the Shadows Rising Trilogy (WIP Rough Draft)

12. Whistles

11th of Eylestre

A cat yowled in a dirty archway over the courtyard of a manufactury, and the scant light of the gaslamps guttered and popped, but aside from the two of us, Arboring Street was still. It was deceptive, that stillness. Where the coal warehouse and woolen mill had been quiet, there were lights in windows and people moving about inside the glassworks and iron mongery that dominated the block. No matter how much I wanted to hurry, rushing was out of the question. Any one of those people might notice if someone ran by. Any one of them might be willing to report us.

The fog was thicker, here, gathering between the buildings, swirling in front of us and rendering everything in dull browns and greys, settling in a subtle sheen of damp on every surface. It was better protection than nothing, but the sun was coming up beyond the heavy clouds overhead, and already we were losing the shadows. My sturdy little coat was an oh-so-cheerful butter yellow, and it stood out ridiculously bright against the rusty storefronts around us.

I bit my lip. I should have worn my ragged thief cloak, black blouse and leather pants.

We hadn't gotten farther than two shops down Arboring when Arramy touched my arm again, drawing me up short before we passed the iron monger. He cast a wary look around, then pressed close to the wall of the warehouse beside us and glanced through the spark screen into the open-air smithy.

The blacksmith and his apprentice were treadling the bellows and shoveling coal into the furnace, stoking the fire to life for the day. They weren't paying any attention to what was going on outside, and Arramy gave me a nudge, urging me to move again.

I started forward, my heart pounding in my throat. We were nearly to the side street that would take us back down to Redtree and the wharves. There was only a printmaker and the long, rambling glassblower's workshop to go. I adjusted my hold on my valise. Then I jerked and sucked in a panicked gasp when the shrill, insistent bleat of a dog whistle tore through the dawn, followed immediately by the clatter of boots slapping the cobbles.

They were coming from everywhere, their footsteps echoing crazily from different directions, pounding toward the wharves.

I looked up at Arramy, eyes wide.

He was searching the street, his face tense. There was nowhere to hide. No alley, no shadows, nothing, not even an overhanging entryway roof.

Footsteps were approaching the corner ahead of us.

Arramy glanced down at me. Then, abruptly, he slid an arm around my waist, hauled me off the ground, turned, and shoved me up against the wall of the printmaker's shop. Hard. He wasn't being at all polite, either, holding me above him with one hand beneath my backside, pinning me there with his hips. He caught the back of my neck in his palm, leaned in, and pressed his lips to hollow of my throat just as several Magis rounded the corner, the beams of their mirrored lanterns bobbing through the gloom.

I dropped my valise and slipped shaky arms around Arramy's shoulders, threading my fingers through his hair, holding him close. We stayed like that, frozen, as those lantern beams landed on Arramy's back, outlining his shoulders in fierce white.

One of the lanterns slowed, then swung back, lingering too long.

Arramy's grip tightened, his body tensing for a fight.

But the dog-pipe was still squealing in the distance, and a female voice snapped, "Leave 'em be, Plinson!" And the light slid past and the Magis kept jogging, leaving us behind.

For several seconds we didn't move.

Then, slowly, I peeked over Arramy's shoulder. "They're gone."